I do seriously apologise in advance for today’s post. I was undecided about whether to go ahead and publish it, or just leave it fester with the many other drafts in my blog cellar. I’ve tried hard in recent times not to be overly negative – a Debbie Downer if you like – although I know that sometimes seeps through despite my best intentions.
I concocted the post during several hours of tossing and turning in bed last night. And as you know… EVERYTHING seems worse at night in bed when you can’t sleep. The smallest of moles is a melanoma. The pain in your chest is you having a heart attack. The annoying bloody work colleague suddenly means your life is unbearable. And so forth.
I haven’t said as much here in this blog – but HAVE in my comments on others’ blogs: I’m struggling with the not-dieting thing. Well, not the not-dieting: I’m awfully good at that. More the mindful eating and not over-eating. Thankfully I’m actually doing well on my no-danger-food for June thing and have lasted half of the month (including this long weekend) without bingeing on my fave foods. So, in a sense, I haven’t reverted to the ‘bad’ behaviour. Rather, I’m just getting nowhere.
My weight which has gone up and down over the past few months is on the high side. 105kg and 107kg are distant memories as I’m hovering around the 109kg mark. I do realise it’s still over 20kg (44lb) less than this time last year, but the sheen of THAT weight loss has faded.
I joke a lot about my state of singledom. Indeed, I’m honest about the fact that I’d like a relationship. But I possibly haven’t been as honest as I could be about how much I’d like one. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not desperate and I’m not lonely. I’m more than happy to spend significant amounts of time by myself. But, I have a sense of alone-ness. I’d like someone to talk to about my day. About my life. I’d like there to be someone (other than my mother) who really cares about me.
This upsets me sometimes more than others. All I need are a few TV shows featuring in-love couples. Or books which include relationships that reek of intimacy… and I’m confronted by the fact that I don’t have that.
And I think it’s worse at certain times because I start to think I’m never gonna have that.
Every time I lose weight I gain hope. I know that my self-image and self-worth shouldn’t be tied to my body and my weight. But there you have it. It is. Whether it’s because I believe others won’t or can’t love me the way I am; or whether it’s because I can’t, I don’t know.
I’ve allowed myself to hope – just a bit – over the past 9 or so months. As I’ve lost some weight I’ve daydreamed about the potential of meeting someone. Falling in love. Yadda yadda yadda. I even sometimes allow myself to think that it could happen before I get to my own goal weight… while I’m still a work in progress.
Until I’m confronted by reality. The bloody not-moving scale. My image in the mirror. It doesn’t take much. Yesterday it was a photo I was trying to take of the fabulous Nicola Waite faux trenchcoat I was wearing. The one on the right is the best of the batch, but all of them were a stark reminder of the fact I’m still quite overweight! Instead of being able to ‘post’ the picture as I’d planned, I was left wondering WTF I was doing even thinking my image was social media-worthy!
And I’m growing my hair. It’s style-less and all over the place. Suddenly I’m reminded that I could (essentially) be defined as ‘middle-aged’. And I bloody look it! I’m no longer a young thing, full of potential, with the world her oyster. Instead, I’m forced to wonder if it’s too bloody late.
Rant over. Sorry about that.